


Close to Reach

by FervidAsAFlame



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Two Toppy Tops, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FervidAsAFlame/pseuds/FervidAsAFlame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Listen," he said, swallowing the last of his drink, "right now. The Met's training gym. I've got a set of keys. We'll walk over and settle this once and for all."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"You want to what -- go wrestle? Right now? Half pissed?"</i>
</p>
<p>After a couple of pints, Greg thinks he can pin John. John doesn’t think so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close to Reach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/gifts).



> For the very lovely [PoppyAlexander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/), who is at least partly responsible for getting me onboard the Johnstrade ship. Can I still call this a birthday present even though it’s almost a month late? Thank you for your amazing contributions and for very graciously listening to me tell you how much I love [Doubtful Comforts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2184438/) on every platform, twice.
> 
> HUGE thanks as well to [FoiledMonsters](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FoiledMonsters/) for the patiently correcting all my dashes, tidying up my tenses, making sure everyone’s hands were where they're supposed to be, and for being an equal opportinuty shipper.

It started, as these sorts of things typically do, with a pub argument. They had finished up another case in which Sherlock had made leaps of deduction so brilliant that Greg had insisted on taking the two of them out for a celebratory drink. At the pub, John continued his steady stream of praise until Sherlock was puffed up like peacock looking for a mate. Finally Greg, muttering _For God's sake_ , had knocked over the dregs of his pint on purpose, just to change the focus.

Now, several hours and several pints later, the pub was getting noisier and a disagreement was brewing in their corner table.

"I am _telling_ you, John, I could."

"And I am telling _you_ , Greg," John said pleasantly, setting his empty glass on the table, "there is no way."

"Yes, there is!" Greg insisted. "You've been out for what is it, over two years now?"

"That doesn't matter."

"Doesn't—how the bloody fuck doesn't it matter? We have monthly physical fitness drills. We have standards."

"Do you?" John with a mock politeness that made Greg’s blood boil. Sherlock tapped away on his phone, his only pint half drank and gone warm in front of him.

"Tell him, Sherlock," Greg insisted. "You've seen the squads training."

Sherlock looked up and scanned Greg's body in that uncomfortably intense way he had. Then his head swiveled to his side where he did the same to John.

"Sorry," he intoned, returning to his screen, "Staying out of this one."

John looked pleased; Greg threw up his hands.

"Listen," he said, swallowing the last of his drink, "right now. The Met's training gym. I've got a set of keys. We'll walk over and settle this once and for all."

"You want to what—go wrestle? Right now? Half pissed?"

"Half," Sherlock scoffed, but he stopped typing and looked up.

“What? Afraid that little body can’t keep up with your big mouth?” 

Greg almost laughed out loud at how John’s posture immediately changed. He squared his shoulders, folded his hands stiffly in front of him and leaned over the table. A dangerous look played over his ruddy face. If Greg hadn’t known John, he would have very nearly felt intimidated. Instead he just grinned cockily and sat back in the booth, arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock did let out a low chuckle, although at whose expense, Greg wasn’t sure. John glared and Greg smirked back and ten minutes later the trio was pushing through a set of double doors into a large gymnasium.

The fluorescent lights hummed to life and gradually grew brighter, revealing soft blue concrete walls, a raised track, and several dark blue mats pushed against one wall.

"This'll do," John said, kicking his shoes off. "Street clothes?"

"Actually, I've got some training kit in my locker," Greg grinned. "Might be a little small for you, but I'm sure—"

"I can take care of it," Sherlock interrupted. "I've got a locker too."

"What do you mean, you've got a locker too? No you haven't." Greg rounded on Sherlock, ignoring John's clenched jaw.

"Mmm, yes, I have," Sherlock started across the gym to the locker rooms with John trailing behind.

"There's a bloody waiting list, you know," Greg complained, walking faster to get in front of them.

"Not on the women's side," Sherlock grabbed John's elbow and dragged him right just as Greg was turning left into the men's locker rooms. He thought of protesting but in the end just rolled his eyes and changed quickly, still feeling a bit clumsy from the drinks. He hoped he wasn't about to make an ass of himself.

He emerged from the men's locker room just in time to catch the end of what sounded like a whispered argument. It was difficult to make out what John was saying, but Sherlock's rumbling baritone carried.

"It's an advantage, John."

There was a low, urgent response.

"Less to grab onto. Why do you think I tailor my shirts so tight?"

Greg didn't even need to hear John to imagine the smart-arse reply he had to that one. What was Sherlock talking him into?

"You know I'm right, so just do it," now Sherlock's voice was moving toward Greg and a moment later he appeared at the entrance with John's clothes tucked under his arm, looking pleased with himself.

“You’re in for a treat, Gilbert,” he spoke so softly it was nearly a breath as he passed by, dumped John's clothing at the edge of the mat, and settled himself against the far wall beside the mats.

“It’s Greg. And what is that supposed to—”

“Ready to go then,” a brisk voice came from behind them. Thankfully John walked straight past and to the mats, because Greg was sure his jaw must be hanging wide open. John was dressed in his thin white vest and the tightest pair of red shorts that he had seen this side of the 80s. _Running shorts_ a tiny part of his brain supplied helpfully. The rest was short circuiting because John’s body, usually hidden under several layers of button downs and jumpers, was on display and it was glorious. Lean, well-muscled, not an ounce of fat and, oh god, he was bending over to adjust the mats and his arse could derail a freight train. 

Greg swallowed and looked up briefly to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an expression that clearly said _I told you so_. Greg’s eyes drifted back to the play of the muscles in John’s tanned biceps, across his broad shoulders, slid down past that perfect arse again, trickled down the exposed thighs and bare ankles.

At the moment Greg was desperately grateful for his longish, baggy black gym shorts, as he could already feel his cock starting to fill out in response to the visual feast before him. He shouldn’t have had that last pint. Even better, he shouldn’t have provoked John Watson. But he was here now and still positive he could best him, so he pushed all thoughts of John’s perfectly tight (honestly, not even a speck of pudge, and how is that fair?) abdominals aside and strode onto the mats.

“Pin to a count of three, right? Sherlock, will you referee?”

“If I must,” Sherlock tried to sound bored, but Greg noticed how once John turned back around Sherlock’s eyes instantly swooped down to his arse. And who could blame him? Especially with the way the shorts cut up at the side of the thigh to expose pale skin and a sprinkling of fine golden hairs.

John cleared his throat and Greg’s eyes snapped up. Luckily he still seemed a bit drunk, weaving very slightly, so it was unlikely he’d realized that Greg was practically leering.

“You’re leaving the shirt on?” John asked, jerking his chin at Greg’s faded T-shirt.

“Don’t you think you’re showing enough flesh for the both of us?”

“Suit yourself. Ready?” John’s eyes, slightly unfocussed, met Greg’s as he nodded. He felt almost bad that he’d probably be taking John down immediately, but at least that might earn him some respect from these two for once.

Sherlock counted them in, and Greg barely had time to think _It was a feint, that bastard_ before crashing into the mats. He had assumed there would be some hopping around, a bit of posturing. But as soon as Sherlock said go, John had lowered his shoulder and barreled into Greg full on, knocking him flat on his back.

Greg could see the edge of John’s manic smile as he squirmed beneath the man's surprisingly solid weight. The burst of adrenaline at being taken by surprise worked in his favor and he was able to slide a leg between John’s and hoist him off before he was pinned. John tried to get to his feet but Greg was able to use the leverage of his upper body to flip John onto his front. John thrashed on the mat, muscles straining as he tried to gain purchase, but Greg was able to scramble onto John's back and get him into a headlock. He struggled, but Greg outweighed him by at least two stone, so he held on and let him wear himself out.

"Boring," Sherlock announced from the sideline, pushing himself off the wall and walking across the mat toward the exit.

"Where the hell d'you think you're going?" Greg grit out, feeling sweat beginning to stand out on at his temples. His muscles were tensing and flexing rhythmically to counter the movements of the man below him. "You're the bloody referee!"

"It's already clear which way this is going," Greg heard Sherlock's voice drifting from the hall as the doors swung shut.

"What the hell is that sup—"

And in the moment of distraction, John somehow ducked the hold, hooked his bare foot around Greg's calf and with a sharp bend was once again grinning down from over him.

"Still think you can top me, Greg?" he squeezed his thighs where they were wrapped tight against Greg's hips. The play of the muscles made the shorts ride up even farther, exposing more of those soft-looking golden hairs. Greg swallowed and realized he had stopped struggling.

"I _know_ I can," he said stubbornly, trying once again to buck him off. John laughed and squeezed his thighs even harder, grabbing and grappling with Greg's strong forearms as they both tried to gain the advantage. Greg saw an opening and rolled forward with a twist. John's back hit the mats with a satisfying thwack and Greg found himself sprawled across John, his back to John's front. John's small, sturdy hands shot out and gripped the plane of his hips hard enough that his thumbs dug into the small of his back.

"You know, I think you could," John said and damn him, he didn't sound out of breath at all. Greg was panting at the high ceiling and still feeling a bit drunk.

There was a silence that lasted long enough that Greg realized he should be doing something but John's hands were still gripping his hips and suddenly they were _pulling_ and John was arching up, pushing his unmistakably hard cock into the small of Greg's back. Greg let out a huff as there was an answering pool of warmth in his gut and scrambled over so they were face to face. Greg grabbed John's wrists and pushed them firmly to his sides, balancing his weight so he could drag his burgeoning erection over the other man's firmly.

"Yeah?" his voice came out rougher than he intended.

"I thought so, yeah," John answered with a look that was as playful as it was dangerous.

They locked eyes for a bare second before their mouths crashed into each other, teeth clashing and biting, tongues hot and thrusting in time with their hips. Without breaking the kiss, Greg released John’s hands and shifted to the side a bit. He groped down to where John’s cock was straining hotly and gripped him through the thin fabric of his shorts. John rolled his hips up again and this time Greg couldn’t hold back a throaty moan. John had to be packing eight inches. _No wonder he always seems so smug._

John broke off from the kiss with a hard exhale that had just the hint of a groan at the end. He arched his back and plunged one hand under Greg’s shirt to pinch a nipple. Greg released another rumble of pleasure and rutted into the hard muscle of John’s thigh.

He barely even flinched when John used the momentum off a hip thrust to push him to his back a final time. John wasted no time in yanking Greg’s shorts down to his thighs and taking his leaking cock in hand. From there it was only a raised eyebrow and a quick nod before his cock was engulfed in the warm, wet heat of John’s mouth. Greg’s head slammed back into the mats hard with a satisfying little burst of pain. His fists clenched at his sides for only a moment before he couldn’t resist shoving one against the grain of John’s short hair and gripping tight. John let out a low moan that vibrated through Greg’s cock as he bobbed his head along its length, his tongue sliding firmly along the underside while one hand steadied the base. Greg’s mouth was open and he gulped silent lungfuls of air as John slid his hand up to meet his mouth and started giving a twist of the tongue to the tip of his cock on each upstroke. Greg couldn’t help gripping John’s hair a little firmer and trying to thrust upward into that slick heat.

Instantly John’s mouth came off with a growl and he shook Greg’s hand off his head. His hands flew to Greg’s hips, fingers splayed and digging in hard. Greg moaned throatily and squirmed against the sting of John’s fingernails, but didn’t try to rock his hips up again. Satisfied that Greg had got the message, John returned to the task using only his mouth, laving his tongue roughly over Greg’s balls once before plunging his mouth over his aching cock. 

Greg could already feel the beginnings of the orgasm tingling along the base of his spine when John hollowed out his cheeks and started sucking in earnest, taking Greg’s cock deep enough that it pushed into the back of John’s throat with every bob. The end of Greg’s gasps began to take on a keening sound but John only dug in harder and shifted to push his legs farther apart. Greg managed to get out a gasping “God … oh God” before John took him in as far as he could. He swallowed once and just like that Greg was coming— with a shout, and directly down John’s throat. His cries of pleasure echoed in the empty gymnasium, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he rode wave after wave of pleasure. 

The last spasms had barely wrung out when John, quick as a flash and with a swipe of the back of his hand over his swollen mouth, scrambled up to straddle Greg’s hips. He shoved the front of the running shorts down far enough to pull himself out and had one fist working furiously over his flushed cock. A protest died on Greg’s lips when he got his first good look at it. At _least_ eight inches. His mouth filled with saliva but before he could make a move, John’s right hand gripped and twisted the T-shirt fabric at Greg’s shoulder, dragging him up onto his elbows. His fist flew faster and he seemed to be holding his breath for an impossibly long time before he let it out in a hard pant and started coming. Greg, who had propped himself up a bit for a better view, watched hungrily as spurt after spurt of milky white liquid erupted from John’s cock.

Finally, John’s shoulders went limp and he released the shirt, resting his hands on the exposed flesh of his thighs. Their breaths seemed to echo through the gym a moment before Greg broke the silence.

“Christ,” he complained, panting down at his soaked shirt. “What, have you been saving it up for me?”

“Well,” John said, eyes sparkling. “I did give you a chance to take it off.”

Their eyes caught for a moment before John grinned and they both burst into laughter. 

They were still laughing when from the edge of the mat, John’s mobile buzzed. Then again. And again. The smile slipped from his face as he rolled off of Greg unceremoniously and got to his feet, distractedly tucking away his softening cock in those too-tight shorts. He trotted to the crumpled pile of clothes and fished out the mobile, turning his back to Greg with one hand on his hips as he thumbed through the messages.

Greg supposed he should probably feel silly sitting half-propped up on the mats with his cock hanging out and covered in spunk, while the despositer of said spunk would probably be dashing after his mad flatmate in short order. And he _did_ feel a bit silly, but he was still going to take this opportunity to get one last ogle at that perfect arse in those shorts. John pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, then cleared his throat and started pulling on his denims hastily over the shorts. Greg rolled his eyes to himself and pushed up off the mat, tugging up his shorts as he got to his feet.

He ambled over and stood close enough that John had to look up at him as he buttoned his shirt.

“Sherlock need you, then?” he asked as neutrally as he could manage.

“Hmm?” John said, his gaze catching for a moment at the sticky mess on Greg’s shirt before meeting his eyes, “Oh, er—yes. Apparently he wandered down the street and into what he suspects is some kind of drug smuggling ring.”

_Lie_ Greg thought, knowing Sherlock’s tricks, _but John will go after him anyway._

"You're all right to get home then, yeah?" John asked, but he was already moving toward the double doors.

"I'll be alright," Greg moved in the opposite direction, toward the locker rooms. He had a brief vision of dragging John into the showers for a second round. "John?"

"Hmm?" his thumbs were flying over the screen, texting Sherlock that he'll be there any second, no doubt.

"Best two out of three?"

John's head snapped up at that, his mouth set and his eyes sharp.

"Still think I could best you. When I'm sober," Greg continued.

"Yes," John said, shoving the mobile in his pocket and folding his arms across his chest, "I'm sure you do think that."

They lingered a second too long before Greg straightened up and cleared his throat. "Next week, then?"

John smile was predatory. "I'll look forward to it," he said over his shoulder, then disappeared into the corridor.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to come hang out with me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/fervidasaflame) or [Tumblr](http://theresacinematicend.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
